


lonely

by sp201120122013



Series: Dangerverse [7]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp201120122013/pseuds/sp201120122013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ghoul thinking about poison.</p><p>(originally posted 2012)</p>
            </blockquote>





	lonely

Things start to get okay when they start to get lonely.

When all the lights in the sky shiver out and spark to nothing, when the fires get put out and the sparks don't even disturb the cockroaches anymore. The radios are shut off, the musicians and the drunks fold away their instruments, pocket their begging cups and crawl into the little holes that they call home. The scraggly plants curl up all of their broken little leaves and tuck themselves in to wait for the sun to come up, waiting for a spot of dew to touch their dry chloroplastic bones. The bones in me that are melting down to all of the same bonds without any of their sunshine, just a puddle of carcinogens sogging into the dust.

I picked this route for a reason. I stole the car, yeah yeah, but you guys are all busy at home. No one's gonna notice me gone. I know you won't. But it's okay, it's okay. Better that I'm not there to feel you make me sad, better that I'm not present for my rejection. I can sit out here, pouring out tears as the stuffing pours out of the car seat you've pushed down around your own spare frame, a seat that doesn't hold me like it holds you. It's just telling me we weren't meant to fit together. The radio is broken, and you keep nagging at me to fix it. I haven't bothered because it means you'll keep noticing me. It'll mean that you won't slam in a cassette tape anymore, that you'll let the wind carry your own voice, your own belligerent screams instead of hers, instead of his, instead of anyone who isn't you. You used to sing so many things. You were awful at it, maybe that's why no one ever chased us, why Jet started to invest in the tapes in the first place, but it sounded a lot better than the pathetic echo of my own whimpers in this car, in this desolate and barren prairie.

There aren't any vultures flying up and overhead waiting to pick my carcass up, there's no one to cover my back if I get jumped. But if something does happen to me, if my organs are blown out all over your dashboard, at least you'd notice the stench. Just look at me again, again, please. Look at me like you used to, even when you still never loved me. It's probably freezing out but all I can feel is my goddamn broken heart, full of all the feelings I never even told you about. And what can I expect? I couldn't just keep putting dirt on a molehill, hoping that maybe one day I'd finally be good enough for you to look over, look over your shoulder and realize hey, hey, he's been here all along. He loves you.

But no. She loves you. Another he, he loves you. They love you. You're untouchable to me, and the precious lapdog of everyone else. You can stretch your paws and nuzzle their cheeks, and I'm just the alley cat outside, scratching and whining for you to let me in, let me in, please baby just let me in. We're not even the same species, much less the same breed. You can keep me around by the scruff of my filthy neck and the grime in my teeth, and I'll crawl over all these wrenches and screws and chemicals and every oxide and carbon I need to to make you happy. If you'll ever be happy. And maybe you'll be a little happier tonight, all alone without my black little head to skulk around and dampen the mood. I'm all the wrong colors, I'm every shade that won't blend in your palette. I am the dark stain creeping into your yellow, the patch of discomfort that makes everything brown and gray and vomit green, and I'm all of the vomit staining all of your Sundays, so I guess it's a good thing you can just scrub me off.

I've started coughing now, and I wish I had a cigarette. Nothing hard, nothing that'll knock me out. No drugs for me. Not until later. Not until I'm tucked in somewhere safe and all alone, where I can self medicate until someone checks on me to make sure I'm okay. Translation, indefinitely. I just want to drawl on some smoke because it smells like you. It doesn't matter that every other nicotine addict out here has that resemblance of stench, it doesn't matter that there's only one brand of poison and we're all smoking it. You're the only Poison taking it in. You are the only steamshaft blowing it out through your dainty little face, and I've never seen you choke on it. It's like air for you, hot cloudy air that makes me feel warm and coats me in your ash. You don't even have to burn me to mark me as yours, I've got all the scabs coating my inside and all the ghosts of the last time you touched me, clinging harder than any of the ink soaked in my skin. And God knows you're the better work of art.

My palms are sweaty and there aren't any gloves to cover them up. They're cold and damp, and you aren't here to cover them from the wind shaking this crummy car. You wouldn't touch me even if you were here. It wouldn't even matter. I shove the keys back in the ignition, mad at myself for burning up gas, wasting fuel. That's all I do. I just waste, waste, waste, and the number one thing that I waste is your time. You're not lonely at home, with everyone who loves you. But I'm lonely out here, and won't you ever know I love you best of all?


End file.
